As you might remember from the last post, I was only able to head to Tarragona after mostly getting over my rotavirus.

Navigating the train was easy–well, as easy as it can be when one travels alone with enough luggage for two weeks abroad and a bad back.

Arriving and getting to the hotel was a different challenge. I ended up waiting about forty minutes for a cab. At one point, I considered figuring out the buses. I asked a fellow traveler about them, since he was waiting there.

Me: “How much do you think it costs to get from here to the Tarragona bus station downtown?”

Him: “You’re in Tarragona.”

Me: “I know. This is the train station. I need to get to the bus station, which is near my hotel.”

Him: “The bus station in which city?”

Me: “Tarragona.”

Him: “But you’re in Tarragona.”

Each of us thinks the other person is an absolute idiot.

I checked into my hotel, located in the old part of the city, within the old defense walls. My room overlooked a plaza.

I was hungry, so I ordered tapas, only to discover that Tarragona tapas are not in fact small plates, since each was designed for me and four or five of my closest friends.

(Note on ordering in Spain: no restaurants will serve paella if you’re single. Paella is about 25 euro a person, and at least two people have to order it. However, each place would initially think I was ordering an entire bottle of wine when I requested my verdejo.)

A short walk took me to a Roman circus: where animals and gladiators would compete and perform. My favorite parts were underground–long hallways with small rooms, where the competitors were kept.

After exploring the underground, a guide pointed me to the way up.

It’s a good thing that I was on my own, because about halfway up to the top, I started to freak out. When I was little, I wasn’t afraid of heights. In fact, I would hide from my mom and stepdad on the roof. Something’s shifted, though, and I don’t like heights anymore, and I am crazy afraid of certain stairs: mostly the old ones in Europe, that are not made for modern feet, and/or that are open, allowing you to see how many flights you’ll fall if you trip like the clumsy chronic pain woman you are.

I am certain that there is security footage of my panic attack. And of me talking to myself, explaining that probably no one has died on those stairs in a couple hundred years.

I did make it to the top.

But I was so flustered that I went down the wrong way, exiting instead of finishing the route. And then I was too embarrassed and exhausted to go back, so I went in search of wine. I had my usual verdejo, but then tried a xarel lo, a sort of cross between chardonnay and sav blanc that is usually used to make champagne.

That night, I had an amazing dinner at my hotel: gazpacho, the best lamb ever, and catalan custard (aka creme brulee). There were also fireworks.

Each night, I had to take a shower before bed because Spain in the summer means you’ll sweat through your clothes all day–that kind of sweat where you can feel little rivers flowing on you. The shower head was a problem, though. The water pressure was high (great!), but it was SO high that it would turn the shower head until it was aimed outside the tub.

Even figuring out this problem, I was powerless to stop it. I just couldn’t have the shower head in my hand the whole time I was getting in and out.

The next day, I wandered around for a long time and ended up at the old Roman wall. It was 11 a.m., and I shouldn’t have been outside. I quickly realized that I was about to get heat stroke, so I did what I used to do in London heat waves: I lay down under a tree and read.

(In London, I would sometimes fall asleep. I have also slept in the “secret garden” at Churchill’s estate.)

When I recuperated, I finished the route and left. I ran into a Scottish woman on the way, and we commiserated about the heat. She also told me her kids were not into their trip: they didn’t care about Roman ruins and didn’t want to eat Spanish food. They kept asking for McDonalds. When we parted, I told her to stay cool.

Her: Think of the gladiators!

Me, suggestively: Oh, I’ve been thinking of the gladiators . . .

Her, laughing: Oh, get on with ye, girl!

Most afternoons in Spain, I used the afternoon siesta to grade.

That night, I went to the Roman amphitheater. I couldn’t go in, but the views were wonderful. I particularly liked the moon over the sea as well.

Back at my hotel, I tried to have the same dinner as the night before, but the main kitchen was closed. I had an okay dinner at a nearby restaurant, while writing postcards. The waiter kept going to every table around me, offering free champagne, since they had opened a bottle. They only offered it to couples, though, not to me.

Tarragona: the woman eating alone, writing postcards, needs the champagne most of all!

Then it was back to my room for some sleep before heading to Peniscola the next day.

Parting thought: Tarragona was beautiful. Also, strangely, I was always able to find my way back to the hotel without a map.

Those who have traveled with me know how insane that is. Maybe one of my previous lives was at the Roman circus.

Karlissa got into two different conferences in Spain this July. Melissa couldn’t go, though, because of family issues, so I undertook the adventure alone. The first conference was in Zaragoza. The second was in Valencia. There were six days in between, so my plan was to do two days in Barcelona, two in Tarragona, and two in Peniscola.

Today’s blog is about Zaragoza:

Getting there took a long time.

This is a very tired me:

On the train from Madrid to Zaragoza, I noticed how much the landscape was like Northern California. The heat was the same, though Spain had more humidity.

I checked into the lovely Hotel Sauce, located just a few minutes from my conference and, as would become important later, next door to a pharmacy.

I presented the morning after arriving. When I woke up, my stomach was upset. I didn’t think anything about it, really, since my stomach is almost always upset. I’ve been having a lot of loose stools lately. So I took some immodium and headed to the conference.

Where I had diarrhea right before and right after my presentation, while the next presenter was getting her computer ready. Did I still pretend I was feeling well and do a good job with my talk? Yes.

I fled to the hotel afterwards to rest, thinking I would get better.

Instead, it got worse and worse. I was basically trapped in my hotel room. I didn’t make it to the bathroom twice. I did stagger out at one point for more diarrhea medicine and electrolytes, but decided after four days that maybe it was time for the ER.

Since I was traveling for work, I had travel insurance. They told me which ER to head to, and off I went, hoping for an IV. The intake nurse and I had to use our phones to communicate about the billing (high school Spanish just didn’t prepare me for that).

The doctor confirmed that a) I was severely dehydrated and b) I had a virus.

No IV, though. Instead, I just got a prescription for more electrolytes and probiotics.

I was supposed to head to Barcelona at this point, but didn’t think that would be a good idea.

The Barcelona hotel tried to be bitchy about me deciding not to come (they wanted to still charge me), but when I sent them pics of my ER visit record, they agreed that I shouldn’t get on a train and show up.

So I healed more. I graded my students’ work, held sickly office hours over Zoom, read a lot of books, and caught up on Stranger Things and Disenchantment.

My Zaragoza hotel was wonderful: they brought me more toilet paper, offered all kinds of help, and were happy when get-well roses arrived from my boyfriend.*

They also had an amazing breakfast–perfect Spanish tortilla and pan con tomate.

When I was finally feeling a bit better, I went to the nearby Ebro river, on a windy day. My family home in Florida is near Ebro.

Before I left, Piero, the author of the Secret Breakfast Newsletter, got me some personalized recommendations for dining in Zaragoza. Due to my stomach problems, I didn’t get to try everything, but I did get some good lamb and had meatballs at a Michelin restaurant.

(One thing to know about Spain: they have excellent and affordable wine. At most restaurants, a glass was between 2.5 and 3 Euros. (Beer is 2.) Even at the fancy place, where I paid 18 Euros for four meatballs, my wine was only 3.5.)

I was also finally able to explore Zaragoza’s Roman ruins. Discovered only a few decades ago, there are the Roman Forum, the Roman baths, and an amphitheater. (The video at the Forum is narrated by the Ebro river.)

Zaragoza became a Roman outpost a long time ago and named Cesaraugusta. It was such an important city that it was exempt from the usual colonial taxes.

*That, former students who read this blog, is called “burying the lede.” That’s right, I’ve found the Gomez to my Morticia.

I got my final grades in today for Spring 2022–it’s the end of my 23rd year of teaching.

My 24th year begins on 6/20, starting with class 316. Over the next week, I need to finish putting the course page together.

And I’m starting to panic: in addition to teaching both summer sessions, I have to get ready to leave the country twice. I leave for Spain in three weeks: I have two conferences back to back there.

And it’s official: I’m going to Dublin at the end of September.

I need my brain to shut up about it all, though, so I can sleep. It’s especially worried right now about how to pack for over two weeks in Spain (while working) and almost three months in Dublin. It keeps reminding me that I’m not supposed to carry anything heavy.

In the past couple of weeks, I’ve introduced the senior comedy show, been to Jacob’s goodbye show, and hosted the extraordinary stand-up class final performance.

I got all dressed up for the senior comedy show: the theme was black tie, and I didn’t have an appropriate outfit, so I had to get a new one. I pulled some black heels out of the very top of the closet. The bottom of both came off before I made it out on stage.

Saying goodbye to my graduating comedy students is breaking my heart.

Last weekend, I saw three plays: a workshop of a new musical about Houdini, Henry V via National Theatre Live, and The Lifespan of a Fact at CapStage. I was especially interested in the latter, since I’ve met its subject, John D’Agata. His aversion to fact checking (and the play about it) is mentioned in Melissa and my sources textbook. One of the authors of the play and I got to chatting on social media after I posted about it.

I’ve recently started dating again. In fact, I was a very sweet guy’s first date from the internet ever. He seemed genuinely surprised when I told him how common it was to find someone there. I had an awful second date with someone too.

Dating is always anxiety producing, and I think of Margaret Atwood’s quote in Cat’s Eye: “I’d been reading modern French novels and William Faulkner as well. I knew what love was supposed to be: obsession, with undertones of nausea.”

The boy and I saw Bob’s Burgers: The Movie, which was great.

My colleagues and I got together at the park–someone missing how I used to spoil them at the grading sessions I ran asked me to make something, so I treated them all to rum cake.

My son’s new girlfriend gave me farm-fresh eggs, and I made quiche, scrambled eggs, and pound cake. She also brought me a new whiskey: so good!

I’ve also been writing a lot of letters of rec, I got a dental cleaning and filling fix, did my yearly eye appointment, and ordered new glasses. I also wrote a furious letter to UCD, after a shot nurse there decided she was done giving me the asthma drug I desperately need, without telling me (I was still on the schedule and still showed up for my appointment, though she was nowhere to be found), and without making sure I could get the shots with my new allergist. So I guess I’m just going to miss this month’s doses.

I watched the first day of Congressional testimony in the January 6th investigation and cried.

I didn’t get Covid, though I feared I would. It’s a matter of time, I know. It’s just too contagious to avoid it forever.

In closing today, I’ll leave you with the best compliment I got from a graduating student: “Yours was the first class at UCD that I couldn’t bullshit my way through.”

Since the last wrap up, I’ve celebrated Whacking Day, seen Tootsie, and made a couple of great dishes, including air fryer pork tenderloin and brussels & a fig and ginger upside down cake. The Kids in the Hall is back!

The best thing, though, was Davy’s goodbye show. Davy is a wonderful comic, and I’ve greatly enjoyed working with him these last four years. I got to open for him, and I will cherish that memory.

The worst thing, though, is that I might have Covid. Lots of my students have been sick, and I was definitely exposed to a friend’s illness on Friday. Today, my throat hurts, and I have a fever. The former could be regular allergy problems, though.

Week 9 of the quarter starts tomorrow, but I may have to move us online, based on what a rapid test and the symptom survey says. This will also delay a solid return to dating, which I’m considering, now that I’m all healed up from my surgery.

My goal to do a catch-up at least once a week just isn’t happening this quarter. I’ve got four classes, and I’m doing a couple of informal independent studies.

To complicate matters, my back went out just over a week ago, and then Dante got sick (ER sick), with lingering symptoms.

And here’s what else has happened since I last did a wrap up:

My phone died, but eventually I got another one.

I went to Chicago.

Where I saw Vanessa.

And Denise, who got to be taller than I for once.

I had Nando’s. (And other great food, but Nando’s is special.)

I got to go to a museum.

The government said they were transferring my loans to FedLoan (which I requested in December), so they could determine where I was on the loan forgiveness payback calendar.

I got teary-eyed at the start of Star Trek: Strange New Worlds. Not for the reason I would have expected–but for one I’ll try to blog about soon.

I served on an honors defense committee for a student at another college, who wrote an almost 100-page thesis on Atwood.

I gave a talk on asexuality in Sherlock and bit my tongue when a giant asshole in the audience started in on how he was going to shoehorn an asexual character in his not-yet-published (because he doesn’t want to publish it now, since he doesn’t have the second book done, and he knows when the first book is published, the public will DEMAND the sequel, and he just doesn’t need that) sci-fi series, even though he had not heard of asexuality until he entered the room 20 minutes before. Luckily, the other panelist, who is ace, politely suggested he do some research first.

I got a bottle of wine from a former student, who said if she hadn’t had me as her workload teacher freshman year, she wouldn’t be graduating now.

I got to go to wine country for the first time since the pandemic–and a rock shop!

I got certified in CPR, since Dublin is happening.

Several of my students have Covid.

I didn’t get to see people close to me because of Covid, and a member of my chosen family has been diagnosed with aggressive breast cancer. So I’m still masking, and I’m doing my version of atheist prayer, and I’m rallying the troops.

Stay safe, my friends.

The third week of classes is almost over. Most of my students are going to be okay. A couple are not. A few are awesome.

In addition to the usual course load, I’m working with two of my former comedy students to produce half hour “goodbye” sets (they’re graduating): something I used to do before the pandemic. It’s a lot of work, but I’ve known these kids for years, and I want to give them a proper sendoff.

Anubis just got his stitches out, after yet another bladder surgery. An unfortunate bout of diarrhea means we need to rent a carpet cleaner soon.

I saw John Mulaney at the Golden One Center. I love him, but I don’t ever want to see comedy in a venue like that again. It’s too big. And I was seated in the front row balcony–a really narrow space. Every time someone had to pee, I worried one of us was going to fall over to our deaths. Is there a little bit of plastic to protect your drink from falling? Yes. Protection from YOU falling? Nope.

After almost four month, I was finally able to re-start my allergy treatment, at a different clinic. Because it’s been so long, they had to take my dose way down, and I have to go in every week now. On top of that, I still go to my regular UCD place to get my Xolair shots twice a month.

In other words, I used to have two shot appointments a month. Now, because UCD can’t seem to find an allergist, I have six. That sucks.

I got to see the National Theatre Live production of The Book of Dust, at the Tower Theater. They did a really beautiful job with it. It was the first time my friend and former Oxford assistant and I had seen each other in a long time.

I have discovered there’s a technical term for another way in which my body is weird.

I saw my ENT last week, because ever since Covid, or whatever I had at the very end of 2019, my right ear has been off: feeling stopped up, with low level pain. My ears have never been great: any change in elevation, even going to the foothills, is painful. It also makes me look awful: my eyes start to water uncontrollably.

In his exam, my ENT asked me to pop my ears.

I explained I couldn’t do that. He assured me I could. So I plugged my nose and blew.

“Oh, wow. You actually can’t. Nothing in your ear moved at all.”

He used a complex scientific term for what I was supposed to be able to do, one I can’t remember now and which isn’t coming up when I search for it.

I honestly hadn’t realized that everyone else could just pop their ears at will; I just thought my painful ears were part of everything hurting when it shouldn’t.

The good news: there’s apparently a treatment we can try, after we run a few hearing tests. As much as I travel, I hope it helps.

Finally, the Dean said a couple of week ago that if I only had 11 students for Dublin in the Fall, we couldn’t go. I did one last push. And it paid off. My 12th student has enrolled, so Dublin, here we come!

I haven’t had the chance to blog in a while, so this is going to be quite the catch all. Here’s what’s happening / what happened recently, in no particular order.

After taking off my bra in the ER on 12/2, after falling and fucking up my shoulder, I finally put a bra back on on 3/2.

I discovered The Mitchells vs. the Machines, which is now one of my favorite movies of all time.

I visited Indy and Chicagoland, which allowed me to see Vanessa, Tiffany, and Denise. Along the way, I got to meet V’s “committee” at her neighborhood bar, have four servings of lamb, visit three breweries; have a private whiskey tasting, watch Turning Red with my niece, get asked about cussing by my nephew, get spoiled with great food by Tiffany; watch Labyrinth with my niece and Vanessa, guard my food from my kitty nephew; explore stand-up with Ben and Kevin; watch my niece learn to make cocktails with Vanessa, visit a horror store, a science and surplus store, and a bookstore with Tiffany, get kicked in the back by two different boys on two different flights, meet a new friend, Eugene, spring forward for hopefully the last time, and introduce Denise to her now-favorite action / superhero movie.

All the while, I’ve been struggling with allergies. Due to problems at UCD Health, I haven’t been able to get my allergy shots since December, and I feel it. I still have to wait a few more weeks before I can start treatment again.

Anubis has had yet another health crisis. Crystals and stones in his bladder resulted in a cat ER visit. And as I write this, he’s in surgery to get them removed.

I’m still trying to figure out my student loans. The DOE finally fixed their paperwork to say I just had the original, de-coupled loans back in December. I immediately filed for loan forgiveness again. They haven’t acknowledged receipt of the application. I emailed them, but the reply ignored my question completely and simply gave me a pat answer about loan forgiveness for teachers who work in k-12.

I’m worried that they’ll simply ignore my application until the temporary access to forgiveness goes away.

My break became less restful when I was given an exciting opportunity: taking over teaching this Fall’s inaugural Dublin program. I had to swing into action to create a new syllabus, videos, and other outreach materials. Not sure if it’s going to work; in this climate, enrollments are low, so the course may not make.

I’ve started the quarter now–most of my undergraduates are wearing masks. Most of my graduate students are not. While on “break,” I was able to set up every aspect of my four courses and to answer my former students’ queries, of which there were many.

This year also saw the latest day a Christmas tree came down: 3/21!

I wanna be related to Eleanor of Aquitaine, I thought to myself yesterday.

This wasn’t entirely random.

I had read through a copy of my ahnentafel (genealogical) table, compiled by my grandfather many years ago. I have piles and piles of material from him, arranged in not always helpful ways (more on that in future posts).

My table goes to the 17th generation (if you count me as Gen 1). There are 19 ancestors listed in that generation.

In other words, my grandfather had traced us in various countries to the 15th century; this was his retirement project (and he retired in his forties). His greatest achievement was tracing our Finnish line back to the 1500s.

I hadn’t had a close look at my table in a while–I wanted to go through this one because it had info I didn’t know about my birth father (more on that later too).

As I was flipping into the more distant past, I noticed one of my Holland ancestors (gen 15) was noted as a bastard son of a Duke.

In the Gen 16, section, Henry Holland, 3rd Duke of Exeter, was listed, with his death year. It’s just a line.

That same section has a few paragraphs under a German relative’s name, with information about the town, German spelling, and how one guy can’t be another guy’s father.

So this Duke seems pretty unimportant, since there are no notes.

But, I realized, if he’s a Duke, we know who his parents are, surely.

Which took me down a rabbit hole. Henry Holland (and his ancestors and relations) were all heavily involved in The War of the Roses. Henry was an asshole by all accounts. He worked as a Constable at the Tower, and the rack (torture device) was nicknamed “Exeter’s daughter.” He ended up in the Tower much later, when his wife’s family (York) was in ascension, since he was loyal to the other side. (His wife? Richard III’s older sister.)

It was perhaps this disloyalty to the Yorks that enabled his wife to eventually divorce him (something rare at the time).

While my (Grand)Daddy recorded the death date, he didn’t note that most historians think he was likely thrown off a ship on orders of the King (while doing a job for him). (The official story was that he fell off and drowned.)

But what does Daddy go into on that page? How the now nonexistent German village’s name might have been spelled.

Henry Holland’s parents aren’t even on the Gen 17 page, though of course we know who they are (he was the third Duke of Exeter, after all).

Henry was a descendant of King Edward III on both sides of his family.

Why have I always been obsessed with the Order of the Garter?

Now I know I’m descended from one of the original knights–and from a Lady of the Garter.

I know about some beheadings.

About being descended from “the Unready.”

And yes, through my relation to this guy:

. . . I am related to Eleanor of Aquitaine and her husband, Henry II.

Today, I’ve traced us back to the 800s, to generation 38. There are other veins to follow, but since they don’t lead to English kings, they probably won’t go back so far.

One name on the tree caught my eye. In Gen 27, Henry I was married to Matilda of Scotland. Her dad was Malcolm III, whom I know as a boy who flees after Macbeth kills his father in the eponymous play. Thus, in addition to the Scottish line I can trace through the Andersons on my maternal Grandmother’s side and the Pagans also in (Grand)Daddy’s line, I’m descended from King Duncan, this guy:

My Masters was on Macbeth, my favorite Shakespeare play.

There are a lot more cool stories in my tree now.

I will read them the way you should read Shakespeare’s Macbeth (not quite history). I will also read them knowing that there are likely mistakes in the record and at least a few men were probably raising children they only thought were theirs.

My (Grand)Daddy was obviously not really interested in these stories of English and Scottish kings. My son’s guess is likely true: once he hit a royal, the fun was over. Everyone else had already built the trees. It was the search that drove him. His discovery that a sale of land happened between his wife’s ancestors and his many generations back was further proof for him that they were meant to be.

He was interested in what happened to the laborers, the peasants, the bastard children, the ones not famous to have a coat of arms.

The bastard son of the 3rd Duke of Exeter, Thomas Holland, had a grandchild (Gen 13) who immigrated to America. And then a long time after that, Bessie Christina Holland married Waito Walter Waltonen (Gen 4). They had my (Grand)Daddy.

Then I went and had a bastard son, shown here, being fed by his Great-Great-Grandma Bessie.

Springtime is officially here, which means allergy season is in full swing. What’s making it worse: I haven’t been able to get my allergy shots this year. My new allergy doctor quit (or something, not sure), so none of us can get the treatment we need. My system is going to farm me out somewhere else, but they can’t see me until the beginning of March, and even then, it won’t be for treatment, but for an evaluation. And I have to go without any allergy medication for a week beforehand. See, they want to treat me like a brand new person who didn’t have a working treatment plan to keep me out of the ER.

I’m using my rescue inhaler every day already. God help me when I have to go off my daily zyrtec and claritin (yes, both: I’m that allergic to every. fucking. thing).

In other news, I’m getting ready for my show on Saturday: I’m headlining at 8 p.m. on 2/19 in Kleiber Hall. I rehearse* every day, and I’m happy with how it’s shaping up.

*Rehearsal consists of me saying the routine out loud while taking a brisk walk around the neighborhood. I carry a pen and paper to write down new tags. I probably am getting a reputation.

I’m still doing pretty well, post-surgery, but I still get fatigued really easily. But it’s hard for me to rest. The boy catches me doing things I shouldn’t and yells at me to go lie down. The file cabinets have been cleaned, I’m trying new recipes, and working on my syllabi for Spring, though.

I’ve also been watching one short film every day this year. I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep it up when I’m back in the classroom, but it’s been a good New Year’s Resolution so far.

Finally, it’s Valentine’s Day. I’m going to have a quiet one here at home, with Jack.

The green light in the pictures? That’s just a bright bulb on the Christmas Tree.

Yup. It’s still up!

Happy Valentine’s!